


Moonshot

by chuutoku



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 05:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuutoku/pseuds/chuutoku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>n. a difficult or expensive task, the outcome of which is expected to have great significance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonshot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [potentialfossil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentialfossil/gifts).



I date a girl in our second year of high school.  
  
It’s not because she’s a girl. It’s because she’s easy, she’s available, she’s cute, and she gives me a good laugh when I’m not downing my disgust with this café’s cheap coffee. We come here every couple weeks. That’s as often as our schedules coincide between her exam prep classes and my basketball practice. She ties her hair back in a ponytail before cutting off small pieces of cake, smiles pleasantly while saying something that bites, breaks the mood. It’s her best feature. I can’t remember how we met -- a friend in common or a club activity in first year, maybe. It doesn’t matter much. It’s sufficient that she fills time and space, that these moments with her are like trips to a foreign planet where hearts beat slower, lights glow softer, and the game is easy. A one-on-one with a result predetermined by protocol. Here, success is a question of a pass to the right place and a step in the right direction.  
  
I wave to her once in the hallway as we walk to the gym.  
  
“That’s her,” I whisper, and elbow your side as she passes by.  
  
“That so,” you say, and glance at her with disciplined disinterest.  
  
Because you don’t ask questions, I answer them for you in advance.  
  
“I like her enough,” said while unbuttoning blazer, blouse, and slipping into a t-shirt. “She’s a lot less boring than all the other girls, at least.” I replace my pants with shorts. “She even said she might come to our friendly with Seirin next week. What more could I want than a girl who likes basketball, huh?”  
  
But you laugh at my jokes even less often than you smile at them.  
  
“You’re trying too hard at something too simple, Takao.” A serious statement to go with your serious face; I can tell you’ve said something profound because you’ve turned your attention from your finger-taping to my grin, and I falter for a moment before doubling over in laughter. I sound twice as loud in Shuutoku’s locker room.  
  
“Yeah,” I say while I catch my breath. “Yeah, I really am. If only -- ”  
  
“No disrespect, but will his highness and the court jester _please_ finish changing so we can start our drills? Because this knight’s horse -- by which I mean truck -- is _this close_ to -- ”  
  
“Hold your horse, his highness is _almost_ done attending to his royal digits!” I shove my uniform into my locker, at once perplexed and amused. Where had _that_ come from? Seirin’s point guard and I must have more in common than I thought -- just like Miyaji’s third-year replacement resembles the original more than I had anticipated.  
  
“It’s none of my business,” Shin-chan begins as he stands up, places what’s left of the tape in his cubby, “but in my opinion you shouldn’t waste any more energy on this girl. She’s nothing more than a distraction.”  
  
If only you knew.

* * *

But you don’t know, because you’re denser than Seirin’s center when it comes to stuff like this, and that ignorance half-liberates me. I can express myself safe in the knowledge that you won’t interpret my actions for what they are. And now, with this girl, I’ve guaranteed that everyone -- you, most of all -- will be none the wiser.  
  
She’s pretty smart, though.  
  
On our fifth date in a two-month relationship -- usual place, usual time, usual bitter beverage and painfully sweet pastry -- she gives me That Look known to men the world over as the one that destroys something for the sake of beginning something else. Hers lacks the angry edge that might culminate the situation in murder, I notice. Small relief.  
  
“Kazu-chan.” She mulls over the pet name as if it were a confection she’d never tasted before and couldn’t decide whether she liked. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”  
  
I try. The coffee helps.  
  
“But I feel like you might be using me.”  
  
She looks to her left while she makes her confession, at the napkin stand by the end of the table. Her right hand curls around her fork as it does whenever she’s rethinking how to say something; one of the twenty habits I’ve observed in an effort to keep my focus on her instead of my greater circumstances.  
  
“You’re nice, Kazu-chan,” she continues. “I know you’re a good person, and I like you for it. You’re a lot of fun. But I can tell you don’t enjoy spending time with me as much as you enjoy playing basketball or being with your friends.”  
  
She looks at me. “Isn’t that a shame?”  
  
“Yes,” I agree wholeheartedly. “Yes, it is, and I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel badly. I... want to like you.”  
  
I pause with a sip of coffee. It’s not a lie, but it’s a complicated truth.  
  
“I can tell,” she says, taking my free hand, “but it’s not working.”  
  
“Well, it could be going better,” I smile ruefully, “but I expected this to be more straightforward.”  
  
“I did, too. That’s why I’m breaking up with you.”  
  
I realize -- in the interim when my hand grips the table and I stifle my gut reaction to say _wait hold on a second back up you can’t break up with me please don’t do that_ \-- that she looks at me kindly, confidently. I’ve made a dangerous friend in this girl. Our conversation now feels more intimate than the one we had while making out behind the park near her house, the same night I went home without an appetite.  
  
“There’s someone else you like, isn’t there?”  
  
I felt something when we kissed, sure. Attention’s attention regardless of who gives it to you and who gets it from you. But when I held her, it was as if I had touched anybody, nobody; every girl I’ve sat next to in class and every girl I’ll meet in the future; a prototype rather than a person. This is my girlfriend, my high school sweetheart. It could’ve been anyone, as long as it wasn’t --  
  
“What’s his name?”  
  
I stiffen under her hand.  
  
“Well, you don’t have to tell me. But I think you should let him know. Otherwise,” she lets go of my hand, arranges fork and napkin on her empty plate, “you’ll just keep hurting others’ feelings.”  
  
Just what I was trying not to do.  
  
Right?  
  
She stands and leaves some coins on the table. “If I were another kind of person, I’d threaten to tell everyone at school your secret unless you talked to him. But,” she smirks, “I’d rather not give you the moral upper hand.”  
  
I laugh -- a little nervous, a lot reassured that we’re okay. “Challenge accepted.”  
  
Her expression softens into a smile. “I hope it works out for you.”  
  
I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s clear to me in that instant: No. She’s as clueless as everyone else.

* * *

I mean, I’m not the kind of guy who loses hope at the outset. Just the opposite: I’ve only _slightly_ grown out of my inclination to do the contrary of what people tell me since middle school, when Midorima Shintarou and his Teikou team handed my ass to me on a platter made of so-called miracles the first -- and only -- time my school met them on court. His shots were crazy. Still are. I singled him out as my rival because he, like me, was his team’s vice captain. I couldn’t let a slight like that slide. I said to myself, _Okay, you can shoot from any range? I just have to know where you are at any given time and make sure the ball never reaches you. Piece of cake._  
  
So naturally, I laughed -- and laughed, and laughed, and laughed until I thought I’d piss my pants and asphyxiate -- when the hawk eye I’d developed _specifically_ to beat you turned out to be something I’d use _specifically_ to help you. It worked just as well that way. I guess, subconsciously, I like to keep my options open. The situation was so ridiculous -- Shuutoku was so ridiculous -- that I couldn’t find it in my heart to hate you. How could anybody loathe a guy who listens to a horoscope program so religiously that he’ll even tote a giant teddy bear around if it tells him to? Miyaji and Ootsubo can be a little uptight, that’s all. If you can’t beat them, join them, don’t you think?  
  
“Is that what happened?”  
  
You were pretty dismissive when I told you. I wouldn’t learn that’s how you show you care until Shuutoku’s first brutal training camp before spring season started, when you refused to admit you were tired -- yet thanked me with a _well, I could’ve gone to get it myself in a few minutes_ when I brought your dinner along with mine.  
  
“I guess?” I grinned. “I don’t know, Shin-chan, you’re a lot more fun than other people.”  
  
“I’m not even slightly fun, Takao.”  
  
Who says stuff like that, honestly? How could I resist befriending a person who _so badly_ didn’t want to be befriended by anybody, let alone myself?  
  
When I told you _that_ the day we adopted the bicycle cart as a method of transportation -- on my suggestion, because I insisted your legs weren’t as strong as your arms; which you allowed, on the condition that we rochambeau for chauffeur -- you scoffed.  
  
“And do you think you’re succeeding?”  
  
“I’m driving you home, aren’t I?”  
  
“That makes you my slave rather than my equal.”  
  
By the time we tied with Seirin in the Winter Cup, we had been developing our pass-and-shoot routine for months in the likely event that we would have to play Rakuzan. Teikou’s former captain had claimed that school for himself. You described him as another guy with special eyes and -- since losing to Seirin at Inter-High and warming up to Shuutoku -- someone you couldn’t beat without help. In other words: Rakuzan was a team we’d defeat only by working together.  
  
“Wait, what was that? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of my incredulity -- ”  
  
“Pass me the ball, Takao.”  
  
“-- Miyaji-senpai, did Shin-chan just say what I think he said?”  
  
“Pass him the ball, Takao.”  
  
“He _did_!”  
  
Totally worth the extra laps after practice.  
  
We lost regardless.  
  
Knowing the time and sweat we’d put into that Cup, it was a wonder I’d cried enough by the time we finished changing and said goodbye to our senpais -- the ones with whom we’d never stand on a podium, trophy in hand, nor see through another major competition. But the evening came with one little blessing -- and, later, a bigger curse.  
  
“You know, Shin-chan,” I began with my back toward him; couldn’t have turned around to face him while driving the cart without risking a minor traffic accident, lucky item or no. “After the game, Ootsubo-senpai asked me if I would captain Shuutoku next year.”  
  
A pause. “What did you say?”  
  
“The only thing I could,” I replied with a small smile.  
  
“Good.” Shin-chan let the word linger in the air for a while. It was only when we reached the intersection before his house that he spoke again. “When they requested my opinion, I told them there was no one else who deserved it more.”  
  
I laughed for the first time since our loss then, pulling into his driveway. “So _this_ is how you finally notice me!” I felt him exit the cart and watched him wander to the front of the bicycle; seated, he seemed even taller, and I grinned.  
  
“You look like you could land a shot on the moon from this angle.”  
  
“Takao.” His quiet tone chilled me. “Tomorrow, there’s something I’d like to talk about with you.”  
  
“Oh?” I smirked, shivered. “Don’t tell me Oha-Asa suggested it.”  
  
“As a matter of fact -- ”  
  
I split my sides, one part delighted and one part trepidatious. He turned on his heel -- but not before designating a time and meeting place.  
  
4pm at the café that would eventually become familiar to me after a few bi-monthly dates with my now ex-girlfriend. It was the only spot I could think to take her, and I enjoyed the irony -- as much as their coffee and her company, anyway. We didn’t have school the Saturday Shin-chan and I spoke there, of course. I woke up near noon -- still exhausted from last evening’s game and commute, but looking forward to leftovers for breakfast -- and flipped my phone open to Oha-Asa, just to have some idea of what to expect.  
  
 _Cancer: Rank 1_  
 _You’ve been stressed lately, but today all tension will finally dissipate! Lucky item: A pack of playing cards._  
  
For shits and giggles, I checked mine, too.  
  
 _Scorpio: Rank 12_  
 _You might make an unfortunate discovery today. Take more care with what you say. Lucky item: A pink hairclip._  
  
All told, pretty predictable. I snagged one of my little sister’s hairclips just to be safe. Not that I’ve ever believed in things like astrology or tarot cards, but -- I came close that day.  
  
The café’s a short walk from my apartment, about halfway between there and Shuutoku. Beyond that lies Shin-chan’s house, in a part of town where there are lots more just like it. I’m not really sure what those families do with so much space. In Shin-chan’s case, he started playing basketball on his first floor’s parquet.  
  
“Didn’t that bother your parents?”  
  
“How could they have been bothered? I only practiced after school until an hour before they returned from the clinic.”  
  
It -- the café, not the Midorimas’ clinic -- is small, bright, and kind of cutesy. There’s a bell above the door that rings whenever someone goes in or out. Bet that gets pretty irritating around lunchtime. My first time there, I thoroughly checked out the pastries -- the picture-perfect type I thought only existed in animes -- and settled on a particularly saccharine-looking donut (to match my hairclip) with a hot chocolate and whipped cream on the side. Shin-chan scowled hello as I slid into the booth near the back of the café where he had been waiting.  
  
“Don’t tell me you took so long because you used hawk eye to place your order.”  
  
“I won’t,” I assured him, and stretched out my hand. “The pack of playing cards?”  
  
He blinked twice behind his glasses before giving them to me.  
  
“Didn’t want to go into our little date blindsided, you know?” I winked and started shuffling the deck.  
  
“Clearly,” Shin-chan muttered, glancing at my hairclip.  
  
I took the moment’s silence to analyze our situation. Frosted donut and a hot chocolate was a solid choice on my part. Even if the café decor still isn’t to my taste, their sweet stuff never fails to make an impression. While I made two piles of ten cards each, Shin-chan nursed a chilled red bean soup and a plate of very untouched, very boring crackers. A summer combo in the dead of winter. _He’s feeling it in his stomach_ , I thought.  
  
“Are you done?” he deadpanned.  
  
“Uh huh. You know how to play Gin Rummy, right?”  
  
He must have -- because he beat me to one-hundred points our first couple rounds, before the conversation finally started.  
  
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”  
  
“Which I inevitably will.”  
  
“ _But_ ,” Shin-chan plowed onwards, “what kind of... how would you characterize our partnership?”  
  
Oh god, I laughed. I laughed and laughed and laughed, laughed until only gripping the table’s plastic stopped by hands’ trembling, laughed until the sound of my voice drowned out my heartbeat, laughed until I swallowed the fear that a crazy -- impossible! -- thought had catalyzed in me. Anyone in my position would’ve come to a similar conclusion. I dolled it up in safe words so I wouldn’t have to take it seriously.  
  
“Is this a _confession_?”  
  
“ _Of what?_ ” Shin-chan spat.  
  
I glimpsed at him. The glint in his eyes cut.  
  
“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered quickly, brushing a finger under my eye. “It’s just -- ”  
  
“I don’t care. Now that -- _I hope!_ \-- you’ve amused yourself with me enough for one day, answer my question.”  
  
“Sure,” I leaned back, and threw my cards on the table.  
  
I stared at them for a while. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Shin-chan directly, not yet; I needed space and silence to process what he had asked me, what I’d immediately inferred, what that inference had done to me and all the events -- a near-year’s worth of friendship -- that had “fated” us to face each other at a kitschy café on an otherwise innocent, unmemorable Saturday afternoon. Kind of a tall order. I cut some corners.  
  
“Well, I guess I’d call you my best friend,” I said, sobered up, still staring at suits and numbers. “We do all the things that best friends do, after all. We go to class together, do stuff after school and games together, we’ve been to each other’s places a couple times and hang out a lot. We talk everyday, too. Hell, I know all kinds of silly things about you. Like this.”  
  
I indicated the playing cards with my chin.  
  
“Granted, the lucky items are a little hard to miss. Does that answer your question?”  
  
“No.”  
  
His gaze said as much, when I looked at him.  
  
“Uh, you know, Shin-chan,” I sat up and attempted a little smile, wrapped my hands around my hot chocolate to prevent them from shaking and tried not to raise my voice. “If there’s... something you want to tell me, I won’t -- ”  
  
“There’s nothing I want to tell you,” he sighed, pushing up his glasses with a taped finger. “Nevermind. Your description was fine.”  
  
Shin-chan made quick work of the soup and crackers then.  
  
“Some people approached me recently. They made some comments about you. And about me, too. I corrected them, of course, and they took me at my word, but I wondered -- ”  
  
My fingers tapped against the table.  
  
“Did they think we were -- ”  
  
“When I considered your behavior, I understood how they might have misconstrued our friendship, in spite of the now obvious fact that -- ”  
  
I spoke over the din -- of his voice and my heart’s pounding, both.  
  
“It wasn’t obvious before?”  
  
“It was obvious to me,” Shin-chan responded. “I just wanted to make absolutely sure.”

My mouth felt dry.  
  
“Because?”  
  
“Well, I would feel a little uncomfortable if it were otherwise.”  
  
Mission accomplished. We collected the cards, shoved them into their case, and downed the remnants of our drinks. Not a hair out of place nor movement out of time. Business as usual. I even blew you a kiss goodbye, pocketed your cringe like a prize.  
  
That night, I laid still on cold sheets and suffered a second interrogation. Plucked memories from their archives at random against the backdrop of my younger self running the length of a park’s court. I dribbled a basketball, fooled imaginary opponents, passed to imaginary teammates, bested an imaginary you.  
  
The single time I played against you, I felt like I had at the café. What is that emotion? I still don’t know. Probably never will with any certainty. I realized around the early AMs that I’ve felt something similar every time we’ve played together, but must have chalked it up to the thrill of the game. The sometimes that I’ve felt it when we’ve hung out should’ve tipped me off otherwise, I guess.  
  
This epiphany came at the same time it lost any prospect of fulfillment; the one was unfeasible without the other. I had two options: Endure, or escape. My attempt to combine these options -- my ex-girlfriend -- got rid of both in one go.

* * *

Nearly a year to the day Scorpio had the worst luck in the world -- a week before the Winter Cup of our second year of high school -- I catch your pass and hold it. We’re the only ones left after regular practice ends, as usual. You raise your eyebrows as I dribble in place. _What’s the meaning of this?_ I imagine they say, half-amused and half-bemused.  
  
“Say, Shin-chan, how about a one-on-one? I don’t think one more pass-and-shoot today will make much difference in the competition, whereas this,” I bounce pass to my other hand, “might expose some weakness in our styles we’ve overlooked.”  
  
A smirk, followed by a delicate stretch of your fingers. “I know you’re just tired of routine, Takao.”  
  
“And I know you can’t refuse my challenge!” I grin, bounce pass between hands again. “How about the first to ten points gets pedalled home in the cart and treated to dinner? Something expensive; noodles won’t cut it.”  
  
“Well, are you prepared to pay?”  
  
“Prepared to win!”  
  
The key to playing one-on-one against Shin-chan -- or any of the Generation of Miracles, come to think of it -- is to make sure he never touches the ball. That’s especially important for someone like me; I’m not exactly the tallest guy on court, while Shin-chan is only rarely shorter than his opponent. Of course, this means that even _attempting_ a shot has a high chance of either equalizing the score or turning it in his favor, since it’s difficult for me to retrieve a ball I’ve put through the net. Shin-chan will already be waiting below the basket; a three-pointer’s just a question of taking two steps back once the ball’s in his hands and letting it go. That strategy limits the kinds of shots I can make and how I can make them. To ensure I control the game's flow, I have to stay close to the basket _and_ the floor.  
  
Unfortunately, I’m too small to make a set shot against someone of Shin-chan’s stature; a dunk gives Shin-chan an opening to get the ball and score a three (while I wait under the basket to land another dunk, rinse and repeat -- a numbers game I’ll lose); and three pointers of my own are totally out of the question. All that leaves in my repertoire are very precise, well-timed jump shots, made by maintaining the same distance between my feet and the floor from a bunch of different angles at a set length from the basket. Overcoming this technique’s predictability requires feints and speed; keeping that up calls for stamina and bringing the match to a quick end. Very unlikely against a player like Shin-chan. _Very_ fun.  
  
We play.  
  
Keeping the ball out of Shin-chan’s hands is (mostly) a simple matter of doing pretty things with my passes. A bounce pass between the legs from my right hand to my left, dribbling on whichever side of my body he isn’t defending, a high arch above his head when he’s distracted by my funny faces and a sprint to catch the ball before it hits the court. I shoot and score, but don’t recover in time; Shin-chan collects the ball easily and eliminates my lead in seconds, 3-2.  
  
“This feels kind of cat-and-mouse, doesn’t it?” I say as I dribble, pause for breath.  
  
“Exhausted already?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. You won’t be smirking anymore in a little while.”  
  
This round, I maintain a 3-4 advantage for a half second before Shin-chan sees through one of my bluffs, steals the ball, and brings the score to 6-4. If I don’t tie before another of Shin-chan’s three-pointers finds its mark, the game’s basically over.  
  
“Are you sure you’ll be able to drive me home after this?”  
  
“Is that any way to talk to your captain, Ace-sama?” I laugh. At this rate, they’re both pretty good questions.  
  
I bounce pass the ball between my hands again, hunched over. Should I try for a three-pointer? If it’s successful, the score will change to 6-7 -- until Shin-chan inevitably shoots seconds later and updates it to 9-7. Then, it’s a matter of another jump shot and securing the ball as soon as it passes through the net -- 9-9 -- and if I can dunk after doing that, I wi --  
  
“Weren’t you supposed to see your girl today?”  
  
The genuinely perplexed look on Shin-chan’s face turns my surprise into mirth.  
  
“Oh, wow, did I forget to tell you? She dumped me.”

“She _dumped_ you?!”  
  
“Basically,” I say, smiling as I walk towards him. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly a model boyfriend. I don’t think we did the classic dinner-and-movie date even once -- ”  
  
“But why would she -- ?”  
  
“I guess she realized she was a waste of my time, too.” Shin-chan watches, mouth parted open, as I face the basket, stick my tongue out in concentration, and let go of the ball. _Swish._ Ah, the satisfying sound of a viable strategy and Shin-chan’s sneakers squeaking against the court. We trade positions, and I catch his three-pointer on its way out of the net: 9-7.  
  
His eyes narrow. “I see what you’re doing.”  
  
“Hey, give yourself some credit. This situation’s as much your fault as it is due to my tactical brilliance.”  
  
Shin-chan sighs. A tapeless finger adjusts his glasses.  
  
“Are you hurt?”  
  
My smile turns into a confused grin. “What?”  
  
He grits his teeth. “Did she hurt your feelings?”  
  
“No!” I dribble the ball with one hand while clutching my abdomen -- from laughter, from an oncoming stomachache. “No, not even a little bit. You were right. I didn’t really like her.”  
  
I glance up at the basket. The near-smooth leather of the ball slaps against my hand steadily, keeps time. And I think to myself -- _Well, if I’m going to lose one game, why not use it to win another in the process?_  
  
“In fact,” I start, suppressing a grimace when I hear my voice’s higher pitch and its slight trembling, “I don’t really like girls at all. I guess I never developed a tolerance for cooties?”  
  
I can’t stop talking.  
  
“Sorry, this is probably coming totally out of the blue for you. I never intended to tell you. I didn’t even notice this about myself until you brought it up after the Rakuzan game. What a catch-22, right? And that girl saw through me after a while. She said I should talk to you about it. I really wasn’t lying, I did like her -- just not like I like you.”  
  
I throw the ball up, up, up -- and it goes down, down, down, into the net and onto the court, where it bounces to stillness.  
  
Tied.  
  
My monologue’s over and I still haven’t looked at Shin-chan, can only stare at the ball that’s rolled between us while red-faced and weak in the knees. I stay standing; if I sit, it’s an automatic loss.  
  
When I finally raise my head, Shin-chan faces the other basket.  
  
“But it’s okay! I’ll get over it. It’s not a big deal. I, um, hope you don’t... actually feel uncomfortable around me now, because it’s not like I -- this isn’t something I think about all that often. I wouldn’t treat you any differently even if I didn’t... you know. So it’s kind of a null fact, huh? If I did or didn’t, what does it -- ”  
  
That quiet voice.  
  
“Takao.”  
  
“-- Sorry, what?”  
  
“Stop talking.”  
  
Back still to me, Shin-chan asks what I’ve always avoided.  
  
“Do you care to know what I feel?”  
  
…. Do I?  
  
I’ve never thought of myself as someone who avoids confrontation for his own sake. In my mind, I dated that girl and didn’t tell you about my feelings -- that sounds so ridiculous, “my feelings” -- because I wanted to spare yours.  
  
And, well, I didn’t want my answer to your question at the café to change, either. I wanted to stay your best friend. I didn’t want something that I hadn’t even been aware of until that day to get in the way of our partnership, and I figured -- _If I did okay without knowing, you can, too._  
  
But ever since that girl broke up with me, I’ve wondered. I mean, I play point guard; I like calling the shots. Revisiting this conversation with you -- because it’s not a new one; it’s ancient history as far as high school time goes -- puts the ball in your hands and my fate at your mercy.  
  
You decide the game. I don’t know if I can handle another loss like that.  
  
But I pick up the ball and pass to you anyway.  
  
“Yeah,” I say as Shin-chan turns around to catch it. “Yeah, I do care to know. What’d you ask back then? I can’t remember anymore. ‘What do you think of our partnership?’”  
  
“Forget that question,” he says, dribbling in place with a disgusted look on his face. “We’re clearly past the point of all meaningful thought if our game has degenerated to this. Do you want to buy me dinner that badly?”  
  
I laugh -- long and loud. “I mean, _clearly_ under other circumstances I wouldn’t mind, but I wouldn’t purposefully lose one-on-one to you just to -- hey!”  
  
Had I caught the ball a millisecond later, my night would’ve ended in a trip to the infirmary for a few fractured ribs from the force of Shin-chan’s throw. Before I’ve had a chance to recover, Shin-chan speaks again.

“Pass.”  
  
“Oi, what happened to -- ”  
  
“ _Pass._ ”  
  
I watch him as he bends his knees, extends his arms -- and my reaction is automatic. My pass finds Shin-chan’s hands at the height of his jump, and he shoots -- scores -- as he almost always does now.  
  
“And with that,” Shin-chan says, walking toward the gym exit, “we reach ten points simultaneously. I suppose you will be pulling the cart and I will be purchasing dinner.”  
  
“Wait, hold on a second, back up,” I stumble after him once I’ve retrieved the ball. “You didn’t answer -- ”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“ _When?_ ”  
  
“Just now.”  
  
I don’t understand.  
  
He senses as much and stops just before the gym doors.  
  
“We,” he swallows; the smallest of pauses, “may not share the same sentiments or play the same role, but we live the same friendship. You’re right; what difference does it make, what we feel? Isn’t our partnership proof enough for us both?”  
  
When you finally turn to face me -- pale, eyes slitted and searching; a killer combination of defensive and earnest -- I smirk in spite of my flush, press the ball against your stomach on my way out of the gym.  
  
“Good point, Shin-chan. You shouldn’t even have to ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, a set shot is one the player shoots without leaving the floor.


End file.
